


The Rose

by KellanCougar



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Drizzle - Freeform, M/M, Sequel, Tearjerker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 04:52:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4249998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KellanCougar/pseuds/KellanCougar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as the standalone sequel and conclusion to my drizzle, The Promise.  Please read that piece first.<br/>Donated to the Fandom for Domie fundraiser.</p>
<p> <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/150951816@N03/35757692172/in/dateposted-public/"></a><img/></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rose

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics to ‘The Rose’ are by Amanda McBroom. I recommend listening to the version by Westlife.  
> Beta’d by mxpi1970. From an idea by twilight mum69.  
> As always, characters owned and created by Stephenie Meyer. I own nothing.

_Some say love, it is a river_

_That drowns the tender reed._

_Some say love, it is a razor_

_That leaves your soul to bleed_

Laying the flowers on my darling wife’s grave, I gazed upon the name engraved on both the tombstone and my heart. Her absence cut like a blade; losing her to an illness I could not cure was a cruel mockery of my medical skill.

Turning to leave, the sun warm on my back, I caught sight of a young man on his knees before a tombstone, his head in his hands. Not wanting to intrude on his obvious grief, I stepped backward to leave. From the corner of my eye I saw him pour a shot of liquid from a flask into a glass and knock it back, raising the glass in a toast, struggling to swallow without sobbing.

I walked away, blending into the early afternoon shadows, the man forefront in my thoughts for the rest of the day.

 

_Some say love, it is a hunger_

_An endless, aching need_

_I say love, it is a flower_

_And you, it’s only seed._

The following week, I returned to change the flowers for fresh ones, tidying and cleaning away debris. She had loved a tidy garden, and this was the only thing left that I could do for her and I would do it with all the love and care she deserved. Catching movement through the dappled shade of the pines, I turned to see the same young man, on his knees in the close-clipped grass, his hands reaching out for the embrace that would never come. I felt his pain; to never feel her arms around me again was an ache that could never be assuaged. Again I saw him raise his glass and swallow the contents, tears shining on his pale cheeks.

On my way out I stopped to speak to the warden, not even really knowing what to say, yet compelled to do it.

“There’s a young man down by the line of pine trees… he’s very distressed. I’ve seen him here before and I’ll be honest, I’m quite concerned about him.”

The man nodded, his expression revealing.

“I know who you mean. He’s here every day. Has been since the funeral. Everyone grieves in their own way, but that lad…” He blew out his cheeks, shaking his head. “He really can’t let go.”

I dropped my head and bid him good afternoon, walking to my car, deep in thought.

 

_It’s the heart, afraid of breaking_

_That never learns to dance_

_It’s the dream, afraid of waking_

_That never takes the chance_

 

When I saw the young man again, I hung back in the trees to give him some privacy, but this time his words caught in the breeze, carrying them to me.

“I _tried._ I really did. But they wanted me to go away, to leave for weeks at a time. How could I? I can’t be away from you. I _can’t._ We belong together forever. I love you.” His hands scrubbed at his face then, his words answering an unheard response. “I know I promised I’d go. It’s not about money – I have money. I didn’t mean to fail you – I never meant to disappoint you. You’re my world, my muse. Nothing makes sense without you.”

He poured his drink and tossed it down his throat.

I got the feeling that he had uttered these words many times before, that he craved a forgiveness that would never come. I understood how he felt, but my Esme had told me many times that it was no-one’s fault, that fate was a cruel mistress. I had her forgiveness, her blessing to carry on. I wondered what he had.

His words grew halting, that of a confused child lost in the wilderness.

“I play our songs. I sing to you still. Do you hear it? You never let me know. I wish you would.”

His fingers caressed the carved letters, the hard stone cold comfort to an aching soul.

 

_It’s the one who won’t be taken_

_Who cannot seem to give_

_And the soul, afraid of dying_

_That never learns to live_

 

That fateful day, I carried my love’s favourite white roses to her marker, setting them into the vase.  I saw him then, slumped on the grass, unmoving, and wasted no time. He was breathing, but unconscious, and there was no response when I spoke to him. I called ahead to the hospital and told them that Dr Cullen was coming in with a patient.

The boy lay in the bed, pale and subdued, the tubes in his arms emphasising his frail body. He looked undernourished. Preliminary tests showed no concrete diagnosis and I had ordered more intensive bloodwork. What I feared finding was the worst thing of all – nothing.

His breathing worsened during the night, and the nurses reporting him calling out to no one, simply apologising over and over. They tried to placate him, to tell him he had nothing to be sorry for, but he just shook his head, tears pouring down his cheeks. When he saw me he gripped my hand, his eyes wild and desperate.

“Doctor Cullen, I have to go – I can’t stay here. He needs me.”

I told him gently as I could that it was dark out, that the cemetery would be locked now, that he should rest. His searing cries of pain tore at my heart. If I could have done it, I would have taken him there myself.

A visit from the on-call psychiatrist the next day revealed little we did not already know: a combination of severe depression and grief combined with guilt that he had not been at his husband’s side at the time of his passing. He was wasting away, eaten up inside with a longing to see his love again, to somehow make it right.

The heart monitor by his bed bleeped and blipped its rhythm, growing irregular with his rising panic. My attempts to calm him were for nought. Instead he asked for a pen and paper to write down what   he did not want forgotten. He wrote with a decisive hand, no hesitation, and he bade me read the list and confirm that I understood. His requests were simple, but brooked no argument, even when I tried to reason.  When finally I agreed, promising to carry out his instructions, he visibly calmed, the monitors once again registering a steady tone.

It transpired that he was a talented pianist, his music earning him an invite to join the symphony on their worldwide tour 18 months ago. My research showed no further mention of him playing in any public forum after that. I found the piece of music he had listed for me and set it to play on a loop in his room, late into the night. I saw with my own eyes that he was lost within it, his gaze far away, transported back in time to where his soul mate still lived.

An eerie feeling coiled its way around my soul that long night. I felt inexplicably uneasy, yet there was nothing of note in his test results. Something was wrong - I knew it deep down and refused to leave. I had nothing to return to at home and I felt a pull to remain here, pacing the floor, staying close and waiting… for what?

He would never ask for me again.

 

_When the night has been too lonely_

_And the road has been too long_

_And you think that love is only_

_For the lucky and the strong_

 

The monitor alarms alerted me to his side some hours later. His heartbeat was irregular and weakening, yet no cause could be determined.  The requested DNR on his chart meant I could do nothing to help, nothing to persuade him to fight, but when I saw his eyes open, full of love for someone he saw over my shoulder, I understood. For the first and last time I saw a smile of pure joy spread across his face, his arms reaching out in welcome.

A tear escaped and ran unchecked down my cheek.

Six weeks later, under a pale yellow sun, I made the walk from Esme’s marker to that other grave to pay my respects to a man I had never met, yet felt I knew through the outpourings of love I had witnessed from a grief-stricken lover.

The words engraved thereon were simple and poignant.

 

_JASPER WHITLOCK_

_1982 - 2011_

_BELOVED HUSBAND AND MUSE._

The grave marker had been updated, the freshly carved words standing out beneath the original inscription.

 

_EDWARD MASEN_

_1983 – 2013_

_DEVOTED HUSBAND._

_FOREVER REUNITED IN LOVE._

 

The young rose bush, planted at Edward’s request, was now coming into bloom, a single red bud soaring upward in joyous celebration of the young couple. I touched the stone with reverence, feeling their love surround me in a cloud of peace.

The wind picked up and, just for a moment, I could have sworn I heard piano music.

Walking away, I did not look back.

_Just remember in the winter_

_Far beneath the bitter snows_

_Lies the seed that with the sun’s love_

_In the spring becomes the rose._

~o.O.o~


End file.
